Floating Twigs: A Boy, a Dog, and the Power of Love

[Note: I quote at some length from both Floating Twigs: A Boy, a Dog, and the Power of Love by Charles Tabb and from Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart. I don't know if this equates in any way to spoilers, so I will simply say, “Enter at your own risk....”]

I read Floating Twigs on the heels of reading Young Mungo. Although it would be inaccurate to say that the two novels cover roughly the same ground, they certainly both tread similar waters: impoverished childhoods, the rough world of toxic masculinity, violence meted out at the hands of and upon the tender bodies of the young, fear and accusations of molestation, all of it played against a fabric of genuine, masculine love, of men or boys caring for one another. The contrast of encountering these two stories so close together could not have been more stark. Compare:

(An excerpt from Floating Twigs:)

“You're right about that, at least,” said Tommy. He looked at the other boys, and I knew it was the signal to attack me. I wondered what I would look like when they finished with me.With a rush, they were on top of me, pummeling and kicking. Fortunately, we rarely wore shoes in the summer. Still, I felt a sharp pain in my side as a boy kicked me in the ribs. I tasted blood when Carl punched me in the mouth. I could feel the teeth loosen as my cut lip ballooned. My nose felt broken, and one eye was already swelling shut.Finally, the boys parted from their handiwork, moving once again into a circle to consider me the way any animal pack looks at fallen prey. Carl was reaching into my pockets and taking the money, including the dime I had found beside the road on my way to the docks that afternoon. I had thought I was lucky when I found it.I lay there crying as defeat settled on me, but it was more than that. I wondered where I would get money to feed Bones. I couldn't keep taking groceries out of my house. If my parents caught me, they would beat me too, even though that rarely happened, but stealing from my family would surely lead to a severe whipping.

Young Mungo

Mungo was writhing in the dirt, blinking, when soft brown eyes looked down at him and there was a flash of a perfect, dazzling smile. He was a beautiful boy; dazed as he was, Mungo was still winded by his beauty. He had the broad-boned nose of a proud Sheltie and dark eyebrows under thick black hair, parted as neat as any parish priest's. He seemed to be saying something, but Mungo couldn't hear him over the din in his skull. Mungo raised his hand to ask for help. Then the boy's foot rose up high and came down like a hoof on the side of Mungo's head.The white flooded back. It felt like when he sat by himself in the darkness and Jodie turned on the big light, the bare bulb with no lamp-shade, and it burned his skull. The foot came down again and again, trying to sever his head from his body. Mungo could hear the rubbery squeak of the trainer against his face. He could taste the blood from his ear and the salt from his eyes in his mouth and in a delayed reflex he pulled his hands up to cover his face.The stomping took on the rhythm of a happy jig. Mungo couldn't see through the pain. The foot came down again and then travelled the length of his body. Then the beautiful boy walked the length of Mungo. He did it in marching strides, like a cartoon Nazi. He turned above Mungo's head, goose-stepped on his heel and made to walk back down the fallen body. The next foot never fell.Ha-Ha was there, the tomahawk above his head, and he cleaved it down on the beautiful Catholic and the boy fell like a wasted sapling. The side of his brother's face was scarlet. There was a curtain of his own blood falling from a line that stretched from his ear to his mouth. It was already raised and puckered white at the edges, like the torn fat on a rasher of bacon. Ha-Ha tapped Mungo with his toe and then he turned, axe above his head, and started hacking at the forest of Fenians.Mungo lay on the wet ground. He could not lift himself from where he had been stamped into the earth. He would have frozen but for the inferno of his pain. And as the fighting raged above him, he closed his eyes.

Floating Twigs

Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind: How Intelligence Increases When You Think Less

The War of Art

Floating Twigs

Floating Twigs

We were passing Helmer's Creek. It wasn't really a creek. It was a man-made canal cut through a low area of Panther Dunes years before I was born. I still don't know why it was there, but I suppose they had their reasons when it was created. A plank footbridge crossed it near where we stood.I wiped the sweat that was gathering on my brow and realized the day was already much too hot. I'd heard the weather report, and the high was expected to top a hundred. It seemed close to that already. The water, the sun shimmering on it, invited me in. It had apparently invited Bones as well. He plunged in, swam across to the other side, huffing through his mouth, then reversed and swam back to where we were. He looked as if he had a big smile on his face, and I marveled that a three-legged dog could swim and not go in circles.“You mind if I go swimming?” I asked.“Suit yourself,” Hank answered.I removed my shoes and shirt and began to wade into the canal, but then I thought better of it. I didn't want my denim shorts to chafe at me all day, which they would if I walked around in them in the hot sun until they dried, and that would take an hour or two. The added heat of the day would make me miserable.I turned to Hank. “You mind if I go skinny-dipping?”He considered my question, shrugged, and said, “Suit yourself.”Stepping up onto the shore, I shucked my shorts and underwear. I'd never been naked in front of Hank before, but he was paying me no attention anyway, and I figured he'd seen his share of naked boys in his life. Besides, I trusted him completely. He deserved my trust more than I deserved to know his history.I waded back into the water and splashed around, cooling off from the heat of the sun that had gripped me moments before. Bones swam around me, seeming to want to play some canine version of tag.After refreshing myself in the canal, I crawled back onto the shore and quickly dressed. I wasn't exactly used to going naked outside, and the feeling was an odd one.I noticed Hank still ignoring me as I dressed.“Sorry if I embarrassed you,” I said.“No, mostly I'm jealous. I'd like to take a dip in this heat myself.”“Why don't you?” I asked.“You're still young,” he said. “I'm old. There's a difference.”I could see his point. As I mentioned, he was probably used to seeing naked boys in his lifetime, but I'd never seen a naked man. I was thankful he didn't take me up on my suggestion.Once I was dressed and we were again on our way in our half-hearted search for Diablo, I pressed Hank for details about the car accident. He refused to give them, though, saying only that the details didn't matter. The fact they were gone was all that did.

Young Mungo:

“It was only a wee game,” said Gallowgate. “It just got a little bit out of hand, that's all.”The man was leaning against a beech tree, near to Mungo's discarded clothes. He was smoking and digging the dirt out from under his thumbnail with the gutting knife. The blade caught one of the few rays that snuck through the canopy and glinted menacingly.Mungo's bottom lip started to tremble. He pinched it, pushed his nail into it until it was steadied. “It wasn't a game to me.”“Ah, c'mon. You know what boys are like. Everybody does something lit this. It's all part of growin' up. It's easier than getting a lassie in bother.”Mungo was angry at himself. He couldn't look the man in the face and found himself talking to the river's surface. The raspy voice didn't sound like his own. “Just you wait. Wait till I tell my big brother what you did. He will fuckin' kill you. He has a tomahawk and he'll split your stinkin' skull with it.”Gallowgate knew nothing about the legend of Ha-Ha. He chuckled as he fussed with his neat fringe. “Be a shame to ruin a guid haircut.”Mungo launched his pumice stone, but Gallowgate was too quick for him and dodged it. It clattered off a tree trunk and skittered through the ferns. The understorey swallowed all sound. They were alone again. Gallowgate folded his blade and tucked it away. “Look, it's possible that I went too far. But are ye sure you didnae enjoy it?” He was grinning now, small sharp teeth. “Even jist a wee bit?”Mungo shook his head slowly. “No.”The man sucked in through his teeth. “Fuck, then I'm really sorry, pal.” Gallowgate considered it for a moment, he even seemed a little remorseful. “But ah'm surprised to hear that. Specially after what Mo-Maw telt us about ye.”There was no blood at all left inside him, yet every inch of him felt bloated with a blistering rage. He blanched and flushed at the same time. “Whatever they say I've done – it was never anything like that.”“Z'at so?” Gallowgate looked contrite for a second, but the sharp point of his incisors stuck on his bottom lip and he became an animal again. “But that's no what ah've heard. It's the whole reason ye were sent away wi' us. To sort you out. To make a man out of ye.”“This is how ye make a man out of me?”“Naw. S'pose not,” he said. “But we're doing this out of the kindness of our hearts, taking a wee waif to gawk at the heathery hillside. So don't be ungrateful. Don't be so fuckin' stingy wi' the favours next time.” Gallowgate picked up the boy's underclothes, his T-shirt and boxer shorts. “In Barlinnie ye weren't allowed to wear yer own clothes. Ye were never given the same pair of underwear twice and by God, they never, ever fit right. Even when they had been washed ye could still smell some other fella on them, still feel the hundred fellas that had worn them afore you.” He ran the grey cotton between his fingers, then he pitched Mungo's underwear into the river. “Ye should wash them. We cannae be carryin' on like pure animals.”Mungo had to flounder downstream to catch the discarded clothes. He regarded them, familiar things he had worn a thousand times and wondered who they belonged to now.Gallowgate had become bored watching the boy flail around. He was irritable in his sobriety. “Anyhows, hurry up with that. Auld Chrissy is still gonnae show ye how to catch trout. It'll be a laugh if nothin' else.” Turning back towards the campsite he stopped short and flicked his cigarette dout towards Mungo. “And jist in case ye take a funny notion, ye cannae tell anybody about what happened. Not yer mammy, not yer brother. Ye'll never be a proper man if they knew whit ye did and how much ye liked it.”“I did not like it.” He spoke as clearly as he could manage.“Really?”It was then that something changed for Mungo. This was not something your mammy could kiss away. It was not a bully that your brother could chib with a blade. Nobody could make a pot of soup for it. The shame and the guilt were his to bear. Mungo knew Gallowgate was right. He couldn't tell anyone.“Besides,” said Gallowgate as he disappeared into the ferns, “everybody knows ye're a dirty wee poofter. A filthy little bender. It'd be yer word against mine.”Then he realized the men would do it again.